by S. L. Eaves
“Sure. Give me a minute.” Catch disappears back into the bedroom.
“Do we know how it happened?”
Marcus sighs, looking back to the window.
“The sun took him.”
An image of Adrian, the porcelain monk, consumed in flames flashes through my mind. In the image he is almost smiling.
“He dove right off his balcony. A penthouse in Barbados. Just after sunrise. There were witnesses. The news reports claim a man set himself on fire and leapt to his death, a suicide, and a dramatic one at that.”
“Wow.”
I take some breakfast from the fridge. He declines my offer for a glass.
“Yes, I knew he was bad, but a Pureblood death is highly rare. He sent two vampires with a letter, they arrived just after sundown. He summoned them just before his…departure from our world.”
“And they are here…already? With a letter?”
“Yes, Adrian appears to have made arrangements prior to his passing. Why he didn’t just give me the letter when we met a few days ago I cannot explain.”
Marcus’s tone is a mix of anger and sadness. The death of a Pureblood means loss of a great power. But that isn’t Marcus’ chief concern at the moment. He’d reached out to Adrian and come away empty-handed. He’d failed to help him.
“The letter. It has your name on it.” Marcus eyes me, then heads for the door. “I’ll see you in the study.”
“Wait. What? My name? But I barely knew him.”
Marcus turns back from the doorway, meeting my eyes. “He was the one who ordered you turned. And you are one of the last ones to speak with him—before he lost his grasp on sanity.”
I nod. “I’m aware. Does that mean something that I’m missing?”
“It may mean a great deal. We don’t know yet.”
He exits.
Catch reappears, dressed and ready. “Okay, let’s go.”
One look at me and my baffled expression.
“What’d I miss?”
***
The two messengers are introduced to us as Jacob and Malik. They are awaiting our arrival in a large meeting room off the main foyer. Drinks sit ignored on the center of a long rectangular table. Crina is leaning on the far wall, arms folded. She straightens up upon Marcus’s entrance with us in toe. Dade, who’d held the door, closes it and flanks Marcus. Jacob’s eyes immediately go to mine.
Jacob stands like a soldier, arms clasped behind his back, chest puffed out, perfectly rigid posture. Maybe he is just trying to hold his own next to the 6'5", 300 pound linebacker standing next to him. Malik carries the air of an African warrior. His massive presence looms over all of us, even Dade. His muscles bulge through what I’m sure has to be a custom tailored his suit jacket. He’d be a perfect candidate for our little army.
The room has plenty of seats to accommodate us, but no one pays them any interest. The vibe is tense and impatient.
Questions flood my mind. The main one being what the hell is going on. Jacob hands me a manila envelope, my name scrawled across the front in calligraphy with thick, black ink. I regard it for a moment, then take it obligingly from Jacob’s outstretched hand.
They watch me with anxious eyes as I break the paper around the wax seal with an imprinted ‘A.’
I ease out the paper. Written on it is a series of numbers.
131 12 02 36.
I flip the paper. Blank. Nothing but a series of numbers.
“Well?” Marcus cannot hide the eagerness in his tone. I look up to meet his gaze, eyes desperately searching for answers.
“Numbers. A code or something.”
I hold the paper out for all to view.
“Why would he leave this for me, leave anything for me?” I mumble.
Marcus turns to Jacob. “Was there anything else recovered from his penthouse?”
Jacob tries hard not to look offended. “If there was anything to find, we would provide you with a full account. All we received was a simple set of instructions. Nothing more, I assure you.”
“The numbers don’t mean anything to you?” Catch asks me.
“Should they?”
“How well did you know Adrian?” Malik inquires.
“Not well. Not at all, really.”
Catch goes to a desk and pulls out some paper and a pen. He starts jotting down the alphabet. We all watch for a moment. Jacob finds his neglected drink and takes a long swig.
“Look, I don’t know what you guys want from me. I didn’t ask for this.”
I hand the paper to Catch who pauses to eye the numbers, then returns to writing out various letter combinations.
“Think hard on it.” Marcus is uncharacteristically agitated. “This is just like Adrian. Never was one for frankness…or clarity. Everything was a riddle, a puzzle to be solved.”
No one seems to want to move. We stand for a while, listening to the sound of Catch's pen scribbling feverishly. I debate raising the question of why Adrian chose to leap into the light, but any answer would be speculation. Adrian’s motives were known only to him. His very existence was shrouded in mystery. Why would his death be any different? Do we even call it death?
I try to recall the details of our conversation, but it is his striking appearance that burns sharpest in my memory: hypnotic coal eyes, shallow creases in his shellacked, pallid skin…the enjoyment he got from watching the fighters…
Then that good ol’ light bulb goes on.
“It’s not a code. It’s a combination!”
Wide eyes turn to me.
Catch chimes in, “To what?”
“Well, you see,” I’m stammering, trying to articulate the beginning of a theory, “when I saw Adrian last it was in a gym. He mentioned that he used to be a regular there. I don’t mean treadmills and such; it was a boxing gym. He said he was mostly a spectator, but also kept up his martial arts studies there. He joked that he even had a locker. The spaces between the series of numbers could indicate a locker combination.”
“To his locker,” Catch muses.
“Sounds like a long shot.” Malik is unimpressed.
"Hmm…” Marcus fingers his goatee, eyes distant. “I suppose it seems like a reasonable connection. I mean why would Adrian have met you in a gym of all places?"
Catch shoots me a knowing glance. “It’s where he found me.”
“Several connections then. Perhaps he’d been planning this all along…I mean to travel to New York and then to the Caribbean in the short time since we left him in Argentina…It’s possible for him I suppose.” Marcus continues, “If you’re right, this letter points to information he wanted you to know, information he didn’t trust me with in Argentina.”
“Well he wasn’t himself. Who knows what was going through his head in his final days,” Catch offers, “It’s a good place to start looking.”
My excitement comes to an abrupt halt.
If this revelation means I have to go back to New York…I am suddenly overcome with grave feelings of terror.
It is too soon.
I grunt in defiance, “Don’t look at me. I’m not going back to the States. You can follow it up yourselves.”
Crina, who has yet to say a word, suddenly crosses the room, grabs me by my arm and wrenches me into the adjoining study. When the door slams shut and we are out of view, her grip switches from my arm to my throat as she throws me up against the wall.
“I won’t stand for this disrespect. You will not speak to Marcus and the others so dismissively. You’re lucky they tolerate your cavalier attitude. This is not the time to be flippant. You play the whole ‘This is not my war’ card and I’ll rip your throat out.”
Her nails dig into my flesh as she crushes my throat, bares her fangs.
“This is your fight. Whether you want it or not does not concern me. It does not concern us. This is serious. You messed up at Hanson’s club. This is another chance to prove your worth. I will not let your antics ruin everything we’ve work towards. You will follow orders, obey Marcus�
��s request and anyone else’s for that matter and be grateful for the honor bestowed upon you. Understood?”
She releases me.
“Understood,” my voice crackles. I bite my tongue to keep from provoking any further rage. I do understand to an extent where she is coming from, but I don’t give a damn about the rest. New York City holds my past and it isn’t going to invite me back with open arms. Nonetheless, message received.
Crina steps back.
“I’m sorry. I’m upset over Adrian’s departure. I’m looking for any excuse to vent my frustrations.” She brushes off my shoulder.
“Not that you weren’t speaking the truth,” I offer.
“The truth…I’m not so sure what the truth is anymore.”
“Adrian’s gone. I will try to find out why.”
Satisfied, she turns toward the door. Once her back is to me, I reach up to check my sore neck. The scratches from her nails have healed. But the message they sent runs deep.
We are greeted by restless faces.
“I’ve had a change of heart. I’ll return to New York.” I pick up the letter. “Hopefully we’ll be able to make sense of this.”
Marcus nods expectantly. “I’ll get the jet ready. You’ll leave shortly.”
“I can join her,” adds Catch.
“There is no need. You have more pressing matters.”
Catch looks from me to Marcus but does not protest. To them this is in no way a dangerous mission.
***
Back in my room, I throw a few items into a small backpack. Catch grumbles and busies himself cleaning the gun parts he’s laid across the counter.
“I don’t understand why I can’t join you.”
“I don’t understand why those two glorified messengers can’t make themselves useful. If they are truly allies, they should jump at the chance to help us.”
“Because they aren’t allies, not really. They’re the ‘don’t lift a finger unless there’s something in it for them’ type…though I suppose if we paid them enough…”
“So they’re like mercenaries?”
Catch shrugs, I don’t think he even knows.
“There is so much I still don’t understand about this world.”
“Right now I’m more concerned about sending you overseas by yourself.”
“Doesn’t Xan need your help following up the leads on Hanson’s phone?”
Catch shrugs, polishes the parts he’d cleaned. Twice. Never good at hiding his frustrations.
“The others are more than capable.”
He spits onto the metal surface of the barrel in his hand. I take an assembled piece off the table and slip it into the small of my back. Just in case.
“Well for what it’s worth, I wish you could join me.”
Catch strokes my hair from my cheek.
“It’s been a few years. No one’s looking for you. Dye your hair darker. Wear a baseball cap or hooded jacket if only to calm your nerves… And whatever you do, do not visit anyone from your past.”
“I won’t, trust me, I know better now. There’s a good chance I’m wrong about this combination business. It seems too…I dunno know, simple. It may very likely be a code for something else entirely.”
Catch smiles. “What’s that saying? ‘The simplest answer is often the right one.’ I think it’s just like Adrian to leave you an encrypted document that turns out to be a simple locker combination.”
We regard the slip of paper. “You know, looking at it, I think it’s too many numbers to be a padlock.”
Catch slides his hand over everything but the first three digits. “First part it the locker number, rest is a padlock combination. Has to be.”
I smile, impressed with his attention to detail. “You clever boy you.”
“All the same I copied down the numbers. I’ll see if I can make logic out of it if the locker’s a dud.” He brushes of my compliment.
“Okay thanks.”
“What did Crina say to you?”
“To stop being a whiny little ingrate.”
“What?” Catch raises his eyebrows.
“Not precisely in those words, but that was the gist. I was being disrespectful to Marcus and to Adrian’s wishes. She was right. I mean this is some heavy, death bed stuff. I should be more considerate. I may not understand why we do what we do or the manner in which we do it, but what matters is that we carry out Adrian’s wishes and, ultimately, end this war.”
“Still…You won’t like my intervening, but I’ll feel I should say something to Crina.”
“It’s not important, Catch. She’s doing her job. And now I’m going to do mine.”
I sling the backpack over my shoulder.
As if on cue, Crina knocks on the door, opening it as she does so.
“Plane’s ready.”
I kiss Catch good-bye.
“Stay out of trouble tonight.” I wink.
Chapter 22
My familiar is not your familiar. The house you grew up in, the backyard you played in, the bedroom you took solace in…that space in my memory is occupied by an assortment of slummy foster homes and dilapidated shelters in the neighborhoods you won’t find featured on Sex and the City.
There is no mailbox with my name on it. There never was.
Now, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, I slip my feet past the tip of my sandals, letting my toes grip the rough surface as I rock back and forth on the curb. The cab that dropped me there sprays exhaust in my face as it zips off. For the first time, as far as I can recollect, I sense what one must feel when they return home after a long absence. I didn’t expect that, to feel anything warm and fuzzy.
I am afraid of being a stranger in my own home. The flight over took forever, there are not enough Sudoku puzzles in the world to distract me from my past. Now I stand in the middle of Manhattan breathing in the city’s fragrance. A fragrance that under normal circumstances might make me glad I don’t need to inhale.
For a short while I stroll the city streets, enjoying a classic summer night in New York City and wondering why I so vehemently resisted returning. I have a window of six hours before sunrise, before I am due back on the plane for home, my new home. It isn’t much time, but I hadn’t expected my old stomping grounds to summon such pleasant nostalgia. So I indulge in the memories less detrimental to my psyche, which are few and far between.
There is no family to track down, and friends? Not likely after my violent departure. I have to stay disappeared. Dead and gone.
I grew up in the bowels of this city.
I am its veins, its heart, its soul, its damned.
Working my way to the gym using a GPS Jiro’d supplied me with, I find the long, narrow building in Hell's Kitchen. Daylight hours, it functions like a normal gym for kickboxing classes and weight training, but nighttime is another story. The venue holds nightly amateur boxing matches and is bustling with fighters and fans with a lust for violence.
The gym smells as I remember it—like the inside of a hamper. I pay the cover charge and walk through the crowd. The flyers posted on the door indicate a big event tonight and I am somewhat relieved to find it much livelier than the night I’d met with Adrian. It will make it easier to walk around unnoticed.
Though the men’s locker room is still the men’s locker room. I keep my hood pulled far over my head as I enter. A quick glance around reveals nothing but rows of lockers and stacks of towels. Nobody hitting the showers tonight. About halfway across on the bottom row I find #131. It has a combination lock on it.
So far, so good.
I glance around to confirm I’m alone, then kneel and try the combination. What is it? Right, left, right? 12…2…36. I can’t help but whisper out loud as I carefully turn the lock.
Click.
I sit back, eyes fixed on the open lock. The combination works. I can hardly believe it. I laugh at the idea of using a combination when I could have easily snapped it off.
Now for the biggest part of the mystery:
What is this locker holding?
I remove the lock and swing the door open. Nothing.
Well that’s anticlimactic.
I study the empty locker. Shiny screws in the back panel catch my eye. There’s one in each corner. The lockers are old and in need of paint. Their screws are just as old. These four aren’t.
Now what?
I didn’t bring a tool kit.
I run my fingers along the metal panel, manage to stick my nails behind the metal and pry the panel outward. Cautiously, I glance around to confirm no one’s watching, then give the panel a rough yank. The metal screws pop out and the panel falls forward to reveal a shallow alcove.
I can’t help but smile.
Resting at the bottom is a thick envelop. I inch it out. There are no markings on it, but the flap has the same “A” stamped on the seal.
A seal which I promptly break.
I empty the contents on the nearby bench. Probably not the most covert action to take, but I’m too excited to care.
A beautiful amethyst pendent on a silver chain glimmers up at me under the beam of my flashlight. I turn the slender, translucent quartz in my hand. It even carries Adrian’s scent. I once read that the amethyst is considered a symbol of immortality. I place it delicately back into the envelope. The remaining contents are sheets of loose leaf paper torn from a notebook. I scan the pages.
Formulas, markers, compounds…and words scrawled across them—“Sialic acid,” “Keto,” “ACHN – OH – COO,” “glycoprotein,” “aldolase enzyme,” “hemagglutinin,” “neuraminidase”—all foreign to me.
I can make out a few key words: “infect” “outbreak” “antidote?”…parts of crazed rants surrounding scientific markers.
I return the papers to the envelope, slip it in my bag, and make my way out of the locker room. I take the comm from my pocket and debate reporting my findings into Jiro and Marcus. I decide to wait to report back to them. I may be a long ways from earning their trust, but they have even further to go to earn mine.
I’ll leave them in suspense for a little while longer.
I have another item on my agenda.
One that, knowing human nature, will require cash. A bribe will be a much more subtle method of getting humans to do my bidding then say the alternative. I cross the gym floor over to the manager’s office. I can hear jeers coming from the bleachers. The door is unlocked and the office is empty. I enter and scan the room until I spot the safe sitting under a table in the corner.